


touch my lover

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Found Family, Happy, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Polyamorous relationship, retired Avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Bucky feels bad. He’s supposed to be out there, supposed to be scraping kernels from the cob. It’s always been his job, it’s the easiest thing for him, like breathing. It’s a bad day though, and not even morning cuddles and scones can help him shake the slump.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	touch my lover

Thing is, Bucky used to  _ hate _ canning corn. It’s hot, it’s sticky, there’s  _ silk _ every fucking where. And it takes all day. Did. It took all day. Canning season was tough, because Steve couldn’t really do much, and Becca wouldn’t do much, and Bucky had always felt some kind of way sitting on the porch with Ma, shucking ice cold corn and cutting it. 

Now though, it’s not different, not really. 

Clint’s sitting on his back porch in ratty cotton shorts and a gaudy purple tank and a pair of beat up Nike sneakers. He’s got a pressure cooker going, and a bathtub full of ice water. He’s been out here for a few hours, whistling to himself and shucking corn. The pile beside him is tall enough to actually feed all of the avengers, but Clint doesn’t seem to be slowing down. 

“Babe,” he says quietly. 

Clint doesn’t say anything. Bucky gently taps his shoulder, but Clint still seems to jump pretty hard. “Lunch?” Clint asks, eyes lighting up.

“Shower first,” Bucky signs. “Natasha’s coming over.”

-

He doesn’t help very often. It’s the silk. He remembers hating how the silk used to curl around his knuckles, his wrist. How even when he showered he couldn’t shake the feeling of silk crawling all over his skin. 

Now he excuses himself by complaining about the silk getting caught in the plates of his prosthetic. 

Natasha comes over though, sometimes, and she sits too close to Clint and she cuts the corn from the cob in slow, steady strokes, belying the tremors from the last fight. Bucky sits out there with them, and when the shaking becomes too much, he and Clint carefully wrap their arms around her. 

They don’t talk about it, they don’t talk about the way Steve comes out with coffee and ginger snaps, and bandages.

Once Natasha’s steady, once whatever blood and bruises she’s hiding are wrapped, Clint scoops kernels into a large bowl he then dumps into a creamer.

Natasha and Steve go in so she can help him make dinner, and Bucky studies the mess, debating how he’s going to start cleaning. 

“Leave it,” Clint presses into his temple. “It’ll wait ‘till morning.”

Ma never let it sit, but Ma isn’t here, and this ain’t her creaming, and Bucky is rubbed raw and exhausted.

-

Steve wants to help, just like he did in the 1930’s. But despite all the science in his body, he just can’t find the rhythm of the shucking, cutting, creaming. He leaves too much silk on the cobs and he cuts too much past the kernel.

He tries though, sits right up close to Clint smiling all soft and gross and nicking his thumb as often as he manages the kernels. 

Bucky feels bad. He’s supposed to be out there, supposed to be scraping kernels from the cob. It’s always been his job, it’s the easiest thing for him, like breathing. It’s a bad day though, and not even morning cuddles and scones can help him shake the slump.

He likes that it’s warm, that the fan is blowing lazy and he can hear the low rumbles of Steve and Clint’s flirting. 

“Gross,” Bucky tells them. “Don’t kiss over the corn, others have to eat it.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it as soon as he says it, because both of his dumb blond boys get matching looks in sinful blue eyes.

Bucky ends up buried under sweaty, sticky kisses, cornsilk caught in his hair and his arm. But it’s okay, wrapped in the smell of sweet corn and sweat, held firm on a rickety porch swing.

“Better make me some damn cupcakes,” Bucky grumbles, smiling and content.

-

“No,” Clint snaps. “No, Tony, I do  _ not _ need repulsors in the pressure cooker.”

“But seconds!” Tony cries, and he’s waving a screwdriver and a blowtorch around, standing dangerously close to Clint’s rusty cooker.

“Tony,” Bucky warns quietly.

Tony slumps in defeat, because even though Bucky agrees the cooker is old and needs an update, Clint’s got some kind of weird attachment to the machine. 

Bucky lifts his shoulder, makes sure Tony hears the ominous creaking. “I got something for you to play with,” he says. Then he slumps down onto the wooden porch. 

Clint gives him a soft smile and goes back to turning the crank on the giant creamer grinder thing.

“Anyway,” Tony says, “Pepper and Rhodey would very much appreciate it if you would let us have Morgan’s princess party out here.”

Clint hums a little, watching the sparks popping out of Bucky’s wrist. “What did Steve say?”

“Ask you and Bucky.”

“Ask Bucky then,” but Clint is smiling.

Bucky sighs. His  _ men _ . “Of course, Tony. But only if Rhodey brings his rhubarb pie and Pepper brings that blackberry jam.”

Tony looks at him affronted. “Duh.”

-

The party is a small affair, all things considered. Mostly Avengers and Avenger adjacents. There’s not really anyone Morgan’s age, but Peter and Harley and Ned toss her around and play with her, and pretty much every other adult present has held her.

Rhodey and Pepper are both standing over a vat of corn with Clint studying it.

“Fat back,” Rhodey finally decides. “It’ll cut some of the sweetness, add some savory flavor.”

Pepper dips a finger into the mess and licks it, swatting Tony and Rhodey for their looks. “Maybe some heavy cream too.”

Clint is nodding, taking notes. “Think it needs another round of grinding?”

Bucky groans, but they all three seem to think the answer is  _ yes _ .

-

Bucky wakes up early, before Steve and Clint. He’s surprised then, by the light on outside. But when he makes his way to the porch with huge mason jars, he’s not surprised to see Bruce carefully working on a small pile of late harvest. 

“Too crowded?” Bucky asks carefully, dunking the shucked cobs under the faucet Clint’s rigged up.

“Something like that,” Bruce says quietly. 

They work in silence until the sun is high in the sky, and Clint slowly creaks his way out with Steve’s shepherd's pie. 

“Bruce,” Clint sighs. 

“Clint,” Bruce sighs back. But he’s smiling. “Almost done with these,” he points to the last three.

“Late harvest always tastes the best,” Clint says wistfully.

“So keep this batch,” Bruce says.

Clint won’t, because late harvest sells best, but Bucky’s in charge of the labeling now.

“Peter and Harley said they had some late harvest too,” Bruce tells them as he takes the first bite of pie.

They all snort though. Bucky isn’t sure those two even know what corn on the cob looks like.

“Quarter says it’s tomatoes again,” Clint bets.

Bruce gives a sly grin. “I’ll take that bet.”

-

It’s not tomatoes. It’s not squash like two years ago or rutabaga like Steve had guessed. 

“What.”

“The.”

“Fuck.” Steve, Clint, and Bucky demand.

Harley has a ring of hickies under his jaw and Peter’s shirt is still inside out.

“Gift from Thor?” Harley asks sheepishly.

“I cannot pronounce the name, though,” Peter admits.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” Clint demands.

He holds a squishy mass of gooey… something. Bucky sniffs it and it’s kind of nice. Smells like the ocean and pineapple. 

“Oh!” Harley says. “Thor mentioned something about uhm, well, he said ‘Tell Clint to ice the jars and then stew it like the strawberries six summers past’ or something.”

Clint eyes the boys, then grumbles to himself snatching the… fruit? 

“I sent you for  _ green beans _ this time. Lord knows you’ll never manage corn but green beans are good. They’re easy! You get them, you wash them, you can them.”

Steve is already grabbing the ginormous pot that only he and Bucky can really handle. Bucky goes to start the fire, set up the grate for the pot to sit on. “You two lovers are in charge of stirring,” Bucky decides.

Both of them blush, go to protest, but Steve gives them the most disappointed look and they head to the kitchen for the giant spoons. 

“I thought we were going to let them tell us themselves,” Steve chides.

Bucky stares at him. “Hickies, Steve. Hickies.”

-

Thing is, Bucky hates the canning season. He doesn’t actually eat corn. He doesn’t like the process of shucking, the feel of the silk. He hates the sticky, smushed kernels. 

But he loves his men, loves his family. 

So when the last cans are sold, when he’s sheepishly pulling out gallons of last harvest, he’s surprised to find himself a little sad.

They’re gathered around a bunch of mismatched tables Clint’s set up. Neither he nor Clint can really follow the conversation, and Steve, sitting between them, is dozing in and out. 

This will be the last big gathering until halloween, eternity school starting back and off world trips and training, as well as needling the two leaders of the young avengers for wedding dates. 

So yeah, thing is, Bucky hates the canning season. 

But he loves watching Clint and Steve, and the way they preen under fingers in their hair, over their shoulders, across their arms. 

It’s okay, though, cause their bed is big and he’s not good at much, but he knows how to touch his lovers. 


End file.
